The People Left Behind
by TheFaultIsInOurselves
Summary: A month after Sherlock's suicide, a young woman moves in downstairs. (Eventual Sherlock/OC)
1. Chapter 1

The flat was dingy, dank and smelt of cold, untouched air. It was small and aesthetically displeasing, dirty, mould thriving in the corners. The tiles of the bathroom were yellowed with grime, the mirror cracked, the warm stream of the shower interrupted by a burst of ice cold water every few minutes. Not something one particularly looked for in a flat in the middle of October... but it was cheap and in Central London; Baker Street, even. The landlady seemed pleasant enough, if not subdued in her manner. There was a man living in 221b, but he did not return often and was apparently planning to move out.

'It's... nice,' Evie said slowly. She plucked a scrap of peeled paint from the wall.

'Oh, you don't have to spare my feelings, dear,' Mrs Hudson, landlady, said. 'I know it's a proper mess.'

'It does need work,' the young woman conceded.

'Listen, I'll lower the rent,' the landlady offered, shuffling toward the door. 'It's just unfair, to charge as much as I was on a place like this. Besides, not many people have applied since Sherlock – since he -' She broke off. Evie smiled sadly.

'Thank you very much, Mrs Hudson,' Evie responded.

'So you'll take it, then?'

'If I may. I do play the violin, though. Not at any unreasonable hour, of course. Is that alright?'

'Oh, it's fine, fine dear,' Mrs Hudson fussed. Her eyes glazed over. 'Why, Sherlock used to – at all hours – no matter how often I - '

She woman stifled a small sob. Evie placed a hand on her frail shoulder and guided her from the room. 'Alright now, Mrs Hudson,' she soothed, 'there, there. Would you like some tea?'

The elderly woman dabbed the corner of her eyes with a handkerchief. 'No, no, it's alright. Oh, silly old me. It's been weeks, and I just can't seem to... you know, the oddest things just seem to tip me right over!'

'Nothing to be embarrassed about,' Evie reassured. 'I'm sure he was a great man.'

'He was,' she sniffled. 'But never mind me, Evie, dear. When should I expect you?'

'Is tomorrow too early?'

Mrs Hudson gave a small chuckle.

Almost at the door, she turned around again.

'And Mister Watson? Will he be here tomorrow?'

Mrs Hudson smiled so sadly, like a grandmother in a nursing home whose son no longer visited.

'He'll come by when he's ready,' she said.

* * *

Evie wasn't one to follow tabloids. She found them dull, uninteresting, and so she came later than most to the Sherlock Holmes scandal. She had heard his name a few times before, but only when he jumped from the roof of St. Bart's did she get a proper glimpse at the world's only Consulting Detective. Once thought to be a brilliant man, now considered a hoax, Sherlock Holmes had committed suicided once it was revealed that he had made up the notorious criminal Jim Moriarty. Whether or not she believed it was irrelevant; it was of no importance to her, didn't effect her day-to-day life. She was content with not knowing.

She maintained this philosophy when she moved into 221c Baker St. She wasn't interested with finding out the truth; she didn't know a thing about detecting. But she did know a little about losing someone close, and resolved to not speak ill of the deceased man, because he was of importance to her new landlady, and the man in the flat above. She merely smiled and offered sympathy, murmured words of reassurance.

She had unpacked her belongings and stored them all away, cranked up the heater to the highest setting to try and fend off the cold. She wasn't doing anything impressive, only tuning her violin, when the door to her flat was slammed open.

'Sherlo-' He started. A man, around his mid thirties with sandy hair and bags beneath his eyes, the same height as Evie, wearing a knitted jumper. When he saw the violin in her hands, the light in his eyes went out, and the name died on his lips.

'Sorry,' Evie blurted, though she wasn't sure why she was apologising. No, she knew why; she felt bad for this man. This man who looked like he had not eaten a proper meal in weeks, nor slept a wink or brushed his hair. This man who looked as if he had aged before her eyes in that moment he realised she was not who he had hoped.

'No, no,' the man replied. 'It's my fault. I'm sorry. I thought you were someone else. I thought maybe you were-'

'It's alright.'

The man sagged, dejected. 'You must be the new tenant.' He looked as if he were going to fall over.

She tucked her violin beneath her arm, the bow swinging from her smallest finger. She stepped forward and extended her free hand. 'Evie Blackwood. Pleased to meet you.'

He grasped her hand in his. His grip was weak. 'John Watson.'

'Pleasure,' she smiled. He returned the expression tiredly. She hesitated.

'Mister Watson-'

'John, please.'

'John. Are you... are you alright?'

His expression closed. 'You're another one of them, aren't you,' he growled, voice dripping with venom. His hand closed tightly around her forearm, jerking her forward with such a force that she had to hop on her feet to remain upright. 'Another of those stupid reporters. Well, you can tell whatever paper you're working for it that you have an exclusive: Doctor John Watson tells tabloids to fuc-'

'No, no!' Evie exclaimed, trying to pull herself free. 'I'm not a reporter! I was just – I mean – Here, I've got my ID -'

She held out her violin and John held it gingerly by the neck. She dug through her pockets, pulled out her wallet and jimmied her licence free from the tight slot. She handed it to him, and he examined it with a critical eye. Then the fire died out and he was left with that drained, weary expression.

'I'm sorry,' he apologised. 'I'm sorry. It's just been a bit... hectic recently. That's all.'

'It's okay.' Silence fell as she reclaimed her drivers licence and slipped it back into her wallet. 'I read about him, you know.'

'Sherlock?'

'Yeah. In the papers.'

John's lip curled bitterly. 'You think he's a fake, then?'

'I don't know.' She shrugged and he handed her instrument back to her. 'It's hard to believe that someone could be so clever.'

'Sherlock could.'

She strummed her fingers across the strings of the violin. The sound, familiar to them both, of four notes clanging together filled the air.

'He must've been pretty great then,' she said, 'to inspire such loyalty.'

He gave her a tight smile which she returned. She shuffled on her feet, trying to phrase her next sentence.

'John,' she hesitated. 'I know this might seem forward... I mean, we only just met... but I was sort of wondering if you were coping alright? I mean,' she rushed on, 'I know you're not. Losing someone so important to you is hard, to suicide especially so, and I guess what I'm trying to say is that if there's anything I could do for you, all you have to do is ask.'

She could see his expression was all just politeness. He didn't want any help from a stranger. He just wanted to grieve alone. But still, he said, 'Thank you, Evie. I'll keep that in mind,' before he excused himself and returned to his flat, leaving Evie alone in hers. She let out a sigh, packed up her violin and sat down with a good book.


	2. Chapter 2

The next night, she found herself standing outside the door to 221b, pot of soup and loaf of bread in hand. It was a chilly night, with wind howling, scratching at the door to be let in. A horrible night to spend alone, grieving. She manoeuvred the food about so she could knock softly at the door.

A muffled 'come in' bid her entry. The flat was dark and freezing cold. She could see, in the dimness, assorted objects and paraphernalia spread haphazardly across the space. Like someone had pulled them from their places to store in the folded cardboard boxes leaning against the wall, but had given up halfway through and left everything exposed, vulnerable. Books, science equipment, a human skull, all lay in wait, half in and half out of the dark, both forgotten and painfully remembered.

John was curled up on the lounge, bundled in a thick blanket, looking for all the world like a child - unable to sleep because of the wind and the monsters. He looked at her with bloodshot eyes.

'Pardon the interruption,' Evie said, 'but I made some soup for tea, and had some left over. Thought I'd bring it up.'

'Thank you,' John croaked, voice unused, 'but I've already eaten.'

She looked around at the cupboard doors, thrown open and gaping, empty of sustenance. The stubborn streak that her father used to constantly reprimand her for emerged.

'Not to be rude, but you very obviously haven't.'

His expression became irritated. 'Alright, I haven't,' he admitted grouchily, 'but I'm not hungry. And I'd like to be left alone. Please.'

Evie nodded. 'Alright.' She stepped into the apartment, closing the door behind her with her free hand, which she then used to fumble around for a light switch. She found one and flicked it on, flooding the room with light.

'Oi!' John grumbled as he flinched away from the brightness.

'Sorry, John,' Evie said, insincere, 'I'll leave you alone once you've eaten.'

'Look,' he said, throwing the blanket that had been covering his face down, 'I appreciate your concern. Really. But I'm fine. I just need time.'

'Time and a good bowl of soup,' Evie quipped. She moved to the kitchen, pulling open drawers full of absolutely everything but cutlery until she found a lone spoon. More searching provided her with a bread knife, and then a bowl, which she washed in the sink since it was full of bolts. She poured in some soup, cut up a few hunks of bread, and placed it before John. Although he wanted to be stubborn, she could tell the smell was weakening his resolve. Finally, he picked up the bowl and scooped a spoonful into his mouth. He let out a sigh.

'Right then,' Evie said, 'let's see about this fire.'

There was some firewood under a pile of old shirts, and in moments the hearth was emanating warmth.

He had five servings, more to sate his ravenous hunger than as a compliment to her cooking, and demolished the half a loaf of bread she had brought with her. When he was done, she washed up and made him a mug of tea.

'Thanks,' he sighed, gratefully accepting the steaming cup. 'I'm sorry I snapped before.'

'It's okay,' Evie assured him. She stood to go. 'I've made your bed – probably rude, I know, but... try and get some sleep. I'll leave you alone now.' She caught his expression. 'Unless... you'd like me to stay?'

John shook his head quickly. 'No, no, you've done enough. Thanks. A lot.'

She smiled. 'No problem.'

* * *

The next day was miserable. Puddles lined the street, escaping from the shackles of gravity and reaching for the sky every time a car sped by. People hurried by, heads down, collars upturned, hands dug deep into their pockets for warmth. Evie balanced the bag full of groceries and her umbrella as she walked briskly back to the shelter of 221 Baker Street, sidestepping people and puddles.

She had rounded the corner of Melcombe and Baker when a small figure thumped into her. She dropped her umbrella to secure her groceries, but she felt a hand slip in and out of her jacket. Before she had even regained her balance, the dirty little street boy was darting away through the crowd.

'_OI!'_ She bellowed, trying to pursue, only to be stopped by the stream of otherwise-engaged Londoners and the slipperiness of the ground. '_GET BACK HERE!'_

She'd already lost sight of him, though, so all she could do was fume silently as she picked up her umbrella and continued home, trying to keep fresh the details in her mind so she could later inform the police.

She stalked through John's apartment as she put the groceries in the cupboards. John winced as he watched Evie slam the fridge door, causing the contents to rattle audibly. He could tell by her stormy expression and the abuse she was handing out to his furniture that something bad had happened.

'Evie,' he asked as she shoved canned goods viciously down the throat of his cabinets, 'did something happen?'

The wooden doors banged shut. 'Some little prick,' she seethed, 'nicked my wallet!'

John winced. 'Everything gone?'

'My licence, my cards, my cash... If I see that little boy again, I swear -' She balled up an empty bag violently and tossed it at the rubbish bin.

'Have you reported the theft?'

'I rang the station; they said they'd keep an eye out, but the chances of getting it back are slim. So all I can do is cancel my cards, apply for a new licence, and wave goodbye to seventy pounds.' She leant against the kitchen table, palms down, and let out a sigh. 'But no point agonising over it, I guess. Did you want some tea?'

Instead of answering, John sat up from his position in his armchair. He had slept last night, thank God, and hadn't woken until Evie had dropped by at three in the afternoon to check if he needed anything down at the shops. He'd said, just some bread and milk, thanks, and handed her ten pounds. She'd come back with fresh fruit and veg, eggs, canned foods, meat from the butchers.

'I'm not going to be here for long,' he had said, but she gave him a look and he had the feeling that she understood all too well his current situation. She hadn't let him reimburse her, either.

'You've no source of income right now, yeah? Just pay me back later.'

Now, he watched as she leant against his kitchen table, offering to make him a cuppa. He studied her closely, trying to see her the way... the way Sherlock would have. Trying to read her history in the creases on her shirt, her character in the shape of her hands. But he couldn't. He'd never been as brilliant as Sherlock. All he could see was a woman in her mid twenties. Hazel coloured eyes, winter pale skin, hair the colour of amber, frizzing because of the rain, and reaching past her shoulders. Freckles, spread across her slightly upturned nose. Her face was rounded and open and kind. She spoke like a London native, as far as he could tell.

He missed Sherlock.

'Evie,' he began, leaning forward. 'Why are you doing this for me?'

'Sorry?'

'You heard me. Why're you taking care of me?'

She looked down at her hands, and John narrowed his eyes, unable to rid himself of the thought that she might be a reporter, another nosy, sickening piece of trash trying to get the inside scoop on the life of Sherlock Holmes. She risked a glance up at him through her lashes, saw the accusation written on his features and let out a heavy sigh.

'My father,' she started, as she filled up the kettle, 'was a successful business man who worked himself to death – quite literally.' Plugged in, switched on. 'My brother, Logan, took over the business and practically ran it into the ground. Killed himself not long after. When I didn't want to take over, my mother disowned me. I was left to grieve alone. No family. No friends.' The kettle came to a boil and she set up two mugs. The clear, steaming liquid turned brown upon contact with the tea bag. Sat for a few minutes, two spoons of sugar ,and she placed it before John.

'So, I'm doing for you what no one could do for me,' she finished, taking a seat opposite him, curling her feet beneath her. 'Looking after you until you can look after yourself.'

John swallowed the lump in his throat. 'I, uh,' he cleared his throat. 'Thanks.'

Her smile was as warm as the tea.

* * *

**Thank you for reading.**

**-J**


	3. Chapter 3

She got a phone call at around ten the next morning.

'Genevieve Blackwood?' The voice, low and smooth, slid through the speakers.

'Speaking,' she answered, cradling the phone between her shoulder and ear so she could keep folding her clothes.

'This is Officer Jenson, from the Paddington Green Police Station. We have your wallet.'

A relieved smile slid across her features. 'Thank God,' she exhaled, 'I was beginning to think I'd never see those cards again.'

The officer let out a chuckle. 'Well, you can come and pick it up anytime today before five,' he told her. She thanked him and hung up.

After folding all her clothes, she left her flat and ascended the stairs. She knocked softly at the door of 221b. When there was no reply, she entered slowly.

'John?' She called softly. 'Are you up?'

He was sitting on the lounge, head cradled in his hands. She could tell by the movement of his shoulders that he was crying. She walked over and sat beside him.

'John,' she murmured.

She reached for him but he flinched away. He stood, dragging his hands across his face and letting out a shaky breath.

'Sorry,' he muttered. 'I just... I tried to, uh, pack up his things today. It, uh,' he cleared his throat, 'didn't end well.'

She eyed the room, as messy this morning as it had been last night. 'Obviously,' she intoned. He laughed, and then her expression turned serious. 'Do you need help?'

He shook his head. 'No, I think... I think I need to be alone today. Sorry.'

'Don't be sorry.' She stood. 'Just give me a yell if you need anything. I'll be gone for a half hour or so, they found my wallet, but I'll be back soon.'

'Okay. Thanks, Evie.'

She bid him goodbye, grabbed her coat and walked outside. It wasn't raining anymore. The sky was grey, reflecting and refracting the suns light to make it uncomfortably bright outside. She buttoned up her coat and set off at a brisk pace.

The man at the front desk was a young bloke, quite handsome too, with dark hair and brown eyes. He looked up when she entered and flashed a smile.

'Good morning, miss,' he greeted, and she recognised him as the voice from her phone.

'Morning,' she replied. 'I believe my lost wallet is here? My name is - '

'Genevieve Blackwood,' he finished for her. 'I can recognise you from your picture.' He smiled again.

She returned the expression. He pulled her wallet out from a drawer in his desk. She gave him her date of birth and address when he asked, and her wallet was safely returned to her. She leafed through it and frowned.

'My cash is gone,' she muttered. The Officer looked at her sympathetically.

'Yes, you reported, what was it...' He scrolled down his screen. 'Seventy pounds. But, you know, those homeless kids. When he took the cash and realised he couldn't use anything else, he just abandoned the wallet. One of our officers found it on the ground, on his way to work this morning.'

'Lucky then, I guess,' Evie relented. 'At least I don't have to fork over twenty quid for a new licence.'

'At least there's that,' Officer Jenson agreed.

* * *

A few nights later, John turned up at her door, jacket buttoned up to his neck and hands stuffed into his pockets.

'Hey,' he greeted when she answered the door. 'D'you want to go out tonight?'

'Go out? Where?'

'Just to the pub. I feel like a drink.'

She eyed him sceptically. 'Are you sure that's a good idea?'

He shrugged.

'Alright then. Just give me a sec to get ready.'

He lounged about in the hallway while she changed into some jeans and a top, pulling her jacket off of the back of a chair. She grabbed her wallet and phone, shoved them into her pockets. Hair piled onto the top of her head, she stuck some earrings into her ears, lined her eyes with some pencil and met him by the front door.

'Okay then,' she announced. 'Here we go.'

There was a pub only a few minutes walking distance from their flats, called The Volunteer. Decent enough, and crowded on a Saturday night. They found two stools at the bar and ordered the first round.

'What brought this on?' Evie asked as the bartender served up her drink.

'Dunno, really,' John shrugged, taking a swig of his own. 'Just got sick of moping around the flat, thinking.'

'Fair enough,' she answered. 'But I'm not going to drink much. Gotta keep an eye on you, you know.'

* * *

John roared with laughter, slapping his hand on his knee. Evie couldn't help but giggle.

'You could've been a bit nicer about it,' he guffawed.

'No!' Evie cried, indignant. 'Did you see him? He had a serious case of wandering eyes!'

'He was alright looking.'

Evie wrinkled her nose. 'I don't want a boyfriend, thank you very much.'

'Why not?'

'Just don't!' She downed the rest of her drink and slammed her hand onto the countertop. 'Bartender! Next round!'

* * *

'And then!' John bellowed dramatically, 'It turns out the he only made me coffee so he could test the sugar for drugs!'

Evie fell off her stool, she was laughing so hard. She caught herself on her feet, almost toppled over, but regained her balance, and returned to her seat. John was laughing, red in the face and tearing at the eyes.

'Oh my God!' Evie giggled, wiping her own eyes. 'That's hilarious!'

John took a few deep breaths and managed to calm down somewhat. 'That's what he was like,' John grinned. 'Hilarious in a... weird sort of way.'

The laughter died down, but before the conversation could become too serious, John flagged down the bartender.

'Another round!' He ordered.

* * *

They stumbled home in the dark and the cold, faces burning with excitement, alcohol pumping through their veins. The trip that had taken them mere minutes before was now taking them a quarter of an hour.

'A soldier _and_ a doctor, eh?' Evie reaffirmed as they leant on each other. 'My goodness, Soldier Doctor John Watson sir!'

John convulsed with laughter. 'Sir yes sir!' He exclaimed with a salute. 'Reporting for duty!' Evie sniggered.

'What about you, Evie?' He poked her side. 'What're your qualifications?'

She stuck out her tongue. 'That's a _secret_,' she tittered.

John raised an eyebrow. 'Secret, eh?'

'Yeah, but,' she looked around and then said in a stage-whisper, 'I'll tell _you_.' She beckoned him forward, and he leant in with his ear. When he was close enough, she stuck out her tongue and licked him.

'Oi!' He yelled as he pulled away from her, stumbling over his own feet. Evie cackled, doubling over in laughter.

'Your _face_!' She howled.

'You're gonna pay for that!' John declared, lunging for her, but she stumbled away from him, and their laughter and screams filled the dark, empty street. They made it to the front door, where they both stopped to catch their breath, their exhales crystallising in the night air, forming clouds with their giggles that drifted away from them into the unknown. After a few tries, John got his key into the lock.

'C'mon,' John said, tugging her up the stairs. 'I'm not tired yet.'

Evie rolled her eyes, but followed him anyway, grinning. They reached the front door of 221b and stopped, looking down at the carpet of Sherlock's clothes, Sherlock's books, Sherlock's life. They stood in silence, together, for a moment.

'He was always so messy,' John slurred, kicking at a book by his feet. 'A massive slob. But he could always find what he needed in only a second.'

Evie watched him, eyes glinting in the dark, and jumped, startled when John picked up that same book and hurled it against the ground. The spine split and pages swirled across the floor.

'He was such a _prick!_' John roared, picking up a box full of folded clothes and smashed it against the ground. 'An annoying, obnoxious, know-it-all prat!' The skull on the mantelpiece, hitting the floor with a _crack. _'Inconsiderate, insensitive!' A deerstalker hat, frisbeed into the wall. 'All his _disgusting _experiments in the _fridge_!' A beaker shattered. 'And his violin!' He picked up the instrument, glaring at it with malice. 'His _fucking _violin! All that depressing music at _three in the fucking morning_!'

He raised the beautifully crafted violin, and was about to throw it to the ground when Evie caught his arm.

'John,' she murmured, 'please. John. These are Sherlock's treasures. These are parts of his life.'

'_WELL FAT LOT OF GOOD THEY ARE NOW!' _He screamed at her. His fists were clenched, his breathing heavy, his anger running on dozens of drinks and the thoughts of a long gone best friend. Evie flinched from the noise, but reached out and gripped his wrists.

He pulled away from her, but when she did not relent, he sunk to the ground, dragging Evie with him. His head sunk down, his chin touching his chest.

'He left me,' he whispered. 'Everything we've been through. All those cases, and the times we... nearly died. I thought we were friends.' He looked at Evie, tears pooling in the corners of his eyes.

'You were,' Evie told him.

'But he didn't tell me anything. He never told me what was going on. He told me he was a fake. Why would he do that? Why didn't he trust me? Why would he lie?' He let out a sob. '_Why did he leave me?_'

Evie gingerly took his face in her hands. His eyes met hers, searching for comfort.

'You're angry,' she said, voice hushed, 'and that's okay. You miss him, and that's okay, too. Grieving isn't about getting rid of those feelings. It's about learning to live with them. Because that's what you have to do. For Sherlock. You have to live.'

They stared at each other for a long time. And then John leant in and kissed her. His lips tasted like vodka. It was a drunk, clumsy kiss, in the dark of 221b, of Sherlock's shadow. She pushed him off gently.

'I'm sorry,' he breathed. 'It's just... I'm...'

Sad. Broken. Desperately, desperately lonely.

This wasn't a solution. It was a distraction. But she didn't know if it was because of the intoxicants surging through her body, or the way John was looking at her in that moment, or the thought of her cold, empty flat.

Or simply because she, too, was lonely.

This wouldn't help either of them -

But damn it all to hell.

She closed her eyes and kissed him back.


	4. Chapter 4

She stared at the ceiling in the dark, John breathing evenly beside her, searching for pictures in the shadows, the paint, the dust. She thought about Sherlock and John and her brother and how people shouldn't feel sorry for the dead, the gone and buried, but for the people left behind because they are the ones who have to live with it all.

* * *

The following morning was awkward, to say the least, but this awkwardness was postponed by a higher need: aspirin, water and coffee.

They both put on their clothes and rambled into the kitchen. Four pills, a couple of glasses of water and two steaming mugs between them and they sat down to talk about last night.

'Look,' Evie started, right off the bat. 'I realise we're both feeling awkward about last night. But you know I'm not looking for a boyfriend and you're not in a good place to be in a relationship. So it was a one time thing and we're friends, right?'

'Yeah,' John took a sip of coffee, 'yeah, friends. Yeah.'

'Yeah.'

Though this did not entirely diffuse the tension, they felt a little more comfortable.

'Well,' she drained her coffee. 'I'm going to go to bed and sleep.'

'Sounds good.'

He stopped her at the door.

'Evie?'

'Yeah?'

'I'm sorry.'

'Don't be. It was my decision too.'

* * *

**Short chapter. Thank you for reading!**

**-J**


	5. Chapter 5

The next week marked a full two months since Sherlock's death. John got up at ten, showered, shaved, brushed his hair. Wore plain trousers and one of his knitted sweaters.

When he was ready, he walked downstairs and knocked on the door to 221c. Evie answered and he could tell she had been up, waiting.

'I'm off,' he told her.

She nodded. 'Alright then. I'll be here when you get back if... in case you need anything.'

John smiled gratefully, and when he went outside, found a cab idling by the curb, waiting for him.

_What a bloody brilliant woman_, John thought.

* * *

When he got to the graveyard, his throat began to tighten. His eyes prickled and his breath hitched as he wound through the rows and rows of stone markers, engraved with now abandoned names.

Sherlock's headstone, gleaming and black. Classy and demanding of attention, just like the man himself. John stood before the grave and cleared his throat.

'Hello, Sherlock,' he said into the silence, feeling more than a tad stupid. 'I, uh. It's me. John.' He gazed off into the distance. 'It's been two months, now, since you... well, since you... left. Died. Life goes on, I guess. You're not in the papers anymore. We had a couple of people, reporters, trying to get at me for a, you know. An interview. But I, uh, I've said all that I have to say. That I believe in you. That I always will.'

He stuffed his hands into his pockets, kicked at the ground.

'New tenant at 221. Her name's Evie. Evie Blackwood. Nice girl. She's really been helping me cope. Don't think I'll be staying there much longer, though. Can't afford the rent. Mrs Hudson's said I can stay if I want, but it's... it's hard.' He looked around at the abandoned graveyard. 'That's all, really. Nothing much to say.'

He turned to leave, but changed his mind at the last minute. Inhaling deeply, he faced the grave.

'I wish you would've told me. I wish I could've,' his voice broke, but he kept going, 'helped. I with I could've helped you. I didn't, and I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Sherlock.' He swallowed, hard. 'I miss you.'

As he turned to leave, he caught a glimpse of something in the corner of his eye. Black... like the back of a coat, chasing it's owner as he turned. John whirled around, but saw nothing.

'Hello?' He called, hoping, and knowing he was stupid for hoping. 'Hello, is anyone there?' No reply. 'Sherlock?'

Silence.

He rubbed his eyes and wondered, not for the first time, if he was going crazy.

* * *

Mrs Hudson poured a nice hot cup of tea for both herself and Evie. She'd already been by the grave earlier in the morning, had a nice long cry, and returned. Evie had knocked on her door and been invited in for tea, been so sweet and kind. She was an absolute blessing, this girl.

'I've been thinking of leaving the city for a bit,' Mrs Hudson informed Evie as she set a plate of biscuits before the young woman. 'Visit my sister. Get away from the horrible cold.'

'I think that sounds like a grand plan,' Evie approved.

'But, John...' the landlady trailed off. 'He's just so...'

Evie gave a sympathetic smile. 'I can look after John, Mrs Hudson. You just take care of yourself. Go and see your family. Get away from this place.'

She worried her fingers together. She was old, and she felt it now more than ever. Her hip was a constant pain, her body sagging in places where it never used to, her entire life open for display in the lines on her face. But this kind of ache was something more than rheumatism and arthritis; it was a horrible, grating sort of pain in her insides, like somebody was continually trying to disembowel her with a butter knife. It was the feeling of outliving a son.

'It's just,' she sighed tiredly, 'it's so hard, dear.'

Evie nodded.

A harsh, electronic buzz filled the air and Mrs Hudson, who had just taken a seat, looked at Evie imploringly.

'I'll get it,' she offered, scooting out of her seat and reaching the front door.

On the other side were two people – one, a thirtysomething, nervous looking woman with brown hair, big eyes and thin lips, the other a handsome fortysomething, hair streaked with silver.

'Um... hello,' the woman stuttered. 'I was just... is John home?'

'He's out, sorry,' Evie reported. 'May I ask who you are?'

'Oh!' The woman squeaked. 'S-sorry. Um, I'm Molly Hooper. I am – was, a friend of Sherlocks. And I'm John's friend too.'

'Greg Lestrade,' the man smiled. 'Same here.'

'Oh!' Evie held the door open for them. 'I'm sure he'll be back soon. Would you like to come in and wait? Mrs Hudson and I just sat down for some tea.'

'Sorry to interrupt,' Molly said meekly as she passed into the house.

'That's alright,' Evie replied, closing the door behind them and following them to Mrs Hudson's apartment. 'Would you like a cuppa?'

'That's be great, thanks,' Greg answered. 'Black, no sugar.'

'And you, Molly?'

'Milk, one sugar, p-please,' she stammered.

Evie set about making to more mugs as the two guests greeted Mrs Hudson.

'How're you holding up?' Greg asked the elderly woman after pecking her on the cheek. He took a seat at the table beside Molly.

'I'm managing,' Mrs Hudson told him. 'I just miss him terribly.'

'We all do,' Molly agreed, eyes fixed on her hands.

'John's visiting the grave now,' the landlady mentioned. 'Should be back soon... I think.'

Evie placed the two steaming cups down before Greg and Molly, then returned to the kitchen counter. 'I think he won't be long,' Evie predicted. 'He's already been gone for the better part of two hours.'

Molly took her cup of tea in her hands and peeked up at Evie. 'Are you... are you John's girlfriend?'

Evie looked at her, startled, and Molly's cheeks coloured. 'I'm sorry,' she spluttered, 'I didn't mean to pry, I just-'

'No, no, it's alright,' Evie soothed. 'I haven't actually introduced myself, have I? Horribly rude, sorry about that. My name is Evie Blackwood. I'm a new tenant, moved in a week ago, in 221c.'

'Blackwood...' Greg mulled over the name. 'Seems familiar. Aren't you -'

His sentence was disturbed by the sound of a key turning in the lock. Footsteps echoed down the hall and John appeared in the doorway. All eyes turned to him, and Molly stood.

He looked drained, but still mustered a smile for his friends. Evie, feeling unnecessary and inadequate, stirred the mug of tea she had just made.

'Well, I have an appointment,' she announced, knowing that she'd be more a hindrance than a help. 'Pleasure to meet you, Mister Lestrade, Miss Hooper.' They returned the sentiment. She passed John on her way out, handing him the mug of tea and a smile, before leaving the friends to reminisce about the most brilliant man they had ever known.

John took a sip. Strong, two sugars.

_Bloody brilliant, _he thought.


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock collapsed onto his cheap hotel bed. The springs squealed beneath his weight, protesting the fact that they were being forced to do their job. He kicked off his shoes, pulled off his hat and his wig. They landed in a pile beside his bed.

He'd spent the morning sulking around the graveyard. Mrs Hudson was the first to arrive; she shed some tears, babbled about seeing her sister and missing him. He watched her hobble away, carefully studying everything about her; the degradation of her health. Her declining financial status. Her slipping relationships.

And hour after Mrs Hudson departed, John arrived.

_'Hello, Sherlock._'

His voice was familiar.

_'It's been two months, now, since you... Well, since you...'_

It was soothing.

_'Left.'_

He hadn't realised how much he'd missed John until he saw the man, standing there, mere metres away from him, talking to a lump of rock stuck into the ground with nothing underneath.

_'Died.'_

It would be so easy for Sherlock to step out from behind the stone angel that concealed him and explain; so easy for him to suddenly be alive again, for them to fall into old patterns and for everything to return to the norm, once more.

_'I've said all I have to say. That I believe in you.'_

And then it would be so easy for John to die, too.

_'That I always will.'_

He pushed past the sentiment and devoured the facts. John had lost weight – 15lbs. A dramatic change, but still better than the 27lbs he'd dropped originally, the month before. His sleeping pattern was erratic at best. Minimal social interactions; reclusive. Old clothes. Cheap shampoo. Coping. Alive.

_'That's all, really. Nothing much to say.'_

He had told Irene Adler that sentiment was a chemical defect found on the losing side. That it was a weakness. That caring was a disadvantage. He didn't know, anymore, if this was true, and this irritated, confused and – my God – _frightened_ him to no end. This philosophy that he had carried with him his whole life, his law, his Golden Rule, was suddenly thrown into question. He imagined that this feeling was similar to an evangelical, zealous Christian suddenly confronted with scientific proof of evolution.

_'I wish I could've helped you.'_

So did he admit he was wrong? Or did he adapt his philosophy?

_'I didn't, and I'm sorry.'_

Or maybe he could do neither; maybe he could reconcile himself with the fact that he was flawed like – _my God – _everybody else.

But to borrow a phrase from Jim Moriarty-

"_It's a flaw – but to be fair, it is my _only_ flaw."_

_'I miss you.'_

I miss you too, he wanted to say.

But he didn't.

* * *

For once, it was John who left and Sherlock that followed, cursing the swish of his long, black coat.

He should have be hunting down the remainder of Moriarty's web, scouring every inch of the city to find them, wipe them out, but – _flaws._

Fortunately, the house opposite 221 was being completely redone, and so it was easy enough to slip on a wig and pair of blue overalls and get lost in the mixture of painters and workers. He painted the face of the house stoically, mechanically, keeping his eyes trained on his former abode. Lestrade and Molly had stopped by to visit. He peered into the windows, catching glimpses of their faces, snatching infrequent words from their lips.

The new girl emerged from the house and Sherlock's lip curled. He did not like Genevieve Blackwood. He had organised for her wallet to be stolen to ascertain her identity, had thoroughly investigated her background and everything seemed legitimate. Her family, her background, her schooling and qualifications. He narrowed his eyes and subjected her to his scrutiny. In her hand, a violin case. Expensive. Good quality, and nice sound, he'd wager. She was inspecting her free hand and he could see she'd burned herself making tea. _Good_, he thought, and then wondered when he'd gotten so petty.

Twenty-four years old. Right handed. Born 06/01/1988 (he scoffed). Blood type O. Her hair had not been cut in around half a year, he would say, absent of dye, and she only wore the barest of make up – just lined her eyes in black. Her nails were filed neatly short, but a home job, he could tell. The way her muscles were developed in the left side of her body implied she had played the violin for many years. Currently unemployed, living off of money left to her by her father. Height, average. Measurements, average. Of English heritage. Physique suggested little athletic ability. Clothes, nice, but not expensive. Manner of speech and the way she carried herself suggested stern, well-educated upbringing.

He walked around the side of the house, and into the currently deserted back garden. He shed his coveralls and shoved them in a bag he had stashed in some bushes, pulling out a frayed, patched and dirty jacket and a wig that was brown and matted. He placed a beanie over that, and smeared some dirt onto his face.

There. He could easily pass as homeless.

He skulked down the street, muttering to himself to complete the illusion. He kept his head bent low to the ground, but his eyes flickered up, now and then, to keep track of the woman in the crowds. People gave him a wide berth, thankfully, so he did not need to force himself through any crowds.

She turned off the street and into Queen Mary's Gardens. She picked a strategic spot to stop, out of the way of pedestrians, but easily seen, and removed her violin from it's case.

Sherlock slumped onto a park bench, resting his chin on his chest and peering through his filthy hair at Genevieve. She has inspected her instrument and, satisfied, was now tightening her bow. She tuned by ear, and the late November air was filled with sound. Sherlock couldn't help but grudgingly admire her technique. Her left hand was perfect. Her bowing, beautifully timed. Her notes did not fall flat or pitch sharply. Her vibrato was even. She shifted positions smoothly.

He consoled himself with the fact that her instrument was inferior to his.

People paused to listen to her, throwing change in her open case. Sherlock mumbled and shifted in his seat to Pachelbel's Canon in D. As the music rang through the air, he closed his eyes.

In the deepest part of him, he knew he was lonely. It was a chaffing feeling. He had never been lonely before John, but now he felt the doctor's absence like a missing limb. It was like smoking – before he started, he did not understand the appeal of cigarettes. When he tried to quit, he did not understand the appeal of a prolonged lifespan. Still, he refused to say anything idiotic like _'You don't know what you've got until it's gone.'_

She finished the tune and bridged seamlessly into an Irish jig. The air lit up with the music – the notes weaved through the trees, stirred the dead leaves on the ground. Sherlock scoffed. That type of music was so... uncultured. So uncouth and unrefined.

She played for two hours, and the dead man didn't move from his bench. When she was done, she collected the money from her case – fifty quid, a more than decent earning – cleaned her instrument, and made her way to the coffee vendor close by. He watched as she ordered two cups of tea, large and small, a banana muffin and a bottle of water. He pressed his lips together, thinking that one was for John, but she came toward him, placed the large tea, muffin and water on the bench beside him and walked away.

He grit his teeth. He wanted to yell at her; to tell her to leave this park, Baker Street, London behind, and take her unwanted and _unneeded_ charity with her.

But he picked up the muffin and took a bite.

* * *

**Thank you for your reviews. It is very encouraging.**

**-J**


	7. Chapter 7

This time last year, Molly Hooper wore a sparkly black dress.

This time last year, Janette broke up with him.

This time last year, Irene Adler was found (supposedly) dead.

This time last year, Sherlock was alive.

John didn't want to do anything for Christmas, but Evie had insisted, so he forced himself into the shower and into his clothes and he picked up a bottle of wine to bring downstairs.

She'd really gone all out. Christmas lights were strung around the windows, useless little figurines of elves and snowmen were perched on almost every available surface. There was a tree, a real one, shoved into the corner, too tall for the room and so the tip was bent over and the star sticky-taped on. There was a small pile of presents beneath, four or five, wrapped neatly and finished with a bow.

She'd roasted a turkey and some vegetables, bought some sauces and bonbons from the grocery store down the road. Her cheeriness was infectious when she greeted him at the door, wearing a santa hat and festive knitted jumper.

'John!' She beamed, wrapping him in a hug. 'Thanks for coming!'

'No problem,' he answered, following her inside. 'I didn't think you were such a festive person,'

'Favourite time of year,' she told him as she grabbed some glasses for the wine. 'Dad always insisted on a big family Christmas, y'know, no work or anything like that allowed. Just mum and dad and Logan and me.' She smiled fondly. 'He called me his Christmas Evie.'

'Ah,' John said, but any seriousness was prevented by Mrs Hudson's arrival. Evie sat them down and brought out food, gave them their gifts (jumper and aftershave for John, bath salts and tea for Mrs Hudson) and bid them goodnight at nine thirty. John returned to his flat and sat in the dark, staring at the open violin case by the window.

* * *

After John and Mrs Hudson had left, Evie washed the dishes, packed up the leftovers and sat on her lounge. Her flat was dark and empty, and the brightly lit Christmas tree and ornaments around the room were only depressing her further. She bit her nails anxiously as she stared at her phone, sitting innocently enough on her coffee table. She took a deep breath, picked it up, and dialled the number she knew by heart.

_Ring, ring, ring, ring, rin-_

'Hello?'

'Oh, Ellen,' Evie said into the receiver. 'It's, uh, it's Genevieve.'

'Ah. Genevieve. What can I do for you?'

'I was wondering if mu- if Adelaide was there?'

Pause. 'She is in the office tonight.'

'Well, I was hoping to talk to her because-'

'She's in a meeting.'

She couldn't stop her voice from rising. 'It's Christmas!'

'Ms Blackwood is a very busy woman.'

She stood, pacing the room. 'Please. 'I just want to talk to her-'

'I'm sorry, she's very preoccupied-'

'Just let me talk to her for one moment. Let me wish her a merry Christmas.'

'This meeting is very important. If you'd like, I can take a message-'

She stopped walking. 'I don't _want_ you to pass along a message, I want to talk to my mother! Just let me-'

She stopped talking abruptly and pulled the phone from her ear as if she had been stung. She stared at the screen in disbelief. The gentle beep that indicated she'd been hung up on fell from the phone's speaker onto the floor. She clutched it tightly, then flung it across the room.

She felt the same way toward crying as she did toward taxes - she hated both and could avoid neither.

* * *

On January second, Evie and John stood at the front door of 221b, overlooking the collection of odds and ends that had made up the life of Sherlock Holmes. The original plan was to box it all up on New Years Day, a new beginning, a salute to an end, but both had been sleeping off hangovers. And so the New Beginning had been postponed to January second.

'Okay,' Evie breathed. 'How do we proceed, Commander?'

John swallowed the lump in his throat. 'I think we'll start out here,' he instructed. 'And kind of... sort through it all.' He blinked rapidly.

'Are you sure you don't need more time?'

The doctor shook his head. 'No,' he muttered. 'No. I need to stop... stop pretending.'

Evie nodded, expression sympathetic, and they started to pick up the items scattered around the room. There seemed to be memories attached to almost every object, and Evie listened and laughed as John told her about the time when they'd had to sort through hundreds of books, with a London A-Z book in his hand. He told her about the Baskerville case as he picked up a pack of cigarettes on the floor. About Irene Adler, The Woman, when he found a mobile in a drawer. And as he turned a bright pink phone over in his hands, he told her about the cabbie and Jim Moriarty.

He stopped talking so much after that.

In the end, they got everything done. Most of Sherlock's old belongings had been packed up into cardboard boxes, to be given away to schools (lab equipment) or charities (clothes and books). Some things, John kept. The London A-Z book, Irene's phone, the pink phone, a pack of cigarettes. One of Sherlock's shirts (purple, and John didn't know Evie knew, but she'd seen him sneak it into his room) and the skull he had glued back together. And his violin, John handed to her.

'John, no,' she protested. 'I couldn't.'

'Please,' John said, pressing the case into her hands. 'Violins need to be played regularly, don't they? To sound... good?'

'...Yeah.'

'Then take it. If I kept it, it would just sit in a cupboard, somewhere. Gathering dust.'

She accepted the instrument, and gave her friend a hug.

* * *

That evening, as sweet, smooth music drifted up the stairs, John reclined in his chair and allowed himself to - one last time – pretend.


	8. Chapter 8

January sixth was Sherlock's birthday. Evie rose early, left a note on her door telling John to contact her if he needed anything and to dress warm when he visited the grave. She put on a dress and some lippy, diamond earrings and a matching necklace, buckled up her nicest coat and stepped into some heels. She took the train to Station Street, Birmingham. From the florist she bought two bouquets of flowers, and from the Bottle-O she purchased a bottle of expensive German wine. She took a cab to Witton Cemetary, and wound through the rows of headstones until she found the ones she was looking for.

A great stone angel guarded the corpse of her father. It glared down at her with blank eyes, and she supposed it was fitting for a man like Charles Blackwood, who was often remembered as being both a truly extraordinary man, and a truly intimidating one. On the stone block on which the angel stood, was his name, birth and death dates, and the words "_Now comes the mystery."_ - the last words of Henry Ward Beecher.

Her brothers' marker was less dramatic. A piece of pale polished marble, waist high, his own name, birth and death date, and Nostradamus' last words - "_Tomorrow, I shall no longer be here."_ - as requested in his note.

'Hello,' Evie spoke into the silence. She approached the angel first, and lay a bouquet at it's feet, and then at the base of the stone marker she placed the second. She cleared a patch of grass of snow and sat down before the angel and the rock, then she popped the top off of the wine and toasted toward the sky.

'Dad, Logan.' She took a swig. 'Happy birthday to me.'

* * *

By the time she left the graveyard it was evening. A light dusting of snow had settled on the roofs of nearby buildings, like sugar on top of a cake. She had finished off the whole bottle of wine by herself and was more than a little tipsy, but still she did not want to return home, and she felt awful for it – but tonight she did not feel like comforting John. She felt like going out and laughing and pretending that she didn't miss her family.

Evening was her favourite time of day, in-between day and night. Limbo. Everything seemed nicer and sweeter and softer and there was a whole night of endless possibilities ahead. She found a pub, some little no-name joint, and brushed the snow from her shoulders as she walked through the door. She found a seat at the bar, plopped her handbag on the floor and hung her coat on the back of her chair.

'Evenin' love,' the bartender greeted, a nice looking man with thinning hair, around fifty and soft near the middle.

'Good evening,' she returned politely.

'What can I get for you?'

She leant forward on her elbows. 'Something nice.'

He chuckled. 'Coming right up.'

She smiled at him, then studied her hands as she waited for her drink. Her nail polish, an electric blue, was chipping. She tapped her fingers against the table, playing out a tune on an invisible fiddle.

'A pretty girl, alone at the bar? Christmas is here at last!'

She turned her head to see a man had approached her. He was around thirty, and attractive in a cute sort of way, with a round face and dimples and sparkling eyes. He gestured at the free seat beside her in a 'may I?' sort of way and she shrugged and smiled.

'Marcus,' he grinned.

'Evie,' she answered.

'What're you doing here alone, Evie?'

The bartender placed a napkin down before her, and a drink on top of that. She took a sip. Fruity, with an aftertaste of vodka.

'It's my birthday,' she told him.

He gasped dramatically. 'Your birthday! Alone?'

'Yup.'

'Where's your boyfriend?'

She raised an eyebrow. 'Non-existent.'

'Ah.' He nodded. 'Well, then let me buy you a drink!'

She tipped her glass toward him. 'I have a drink, sir.'

He winked. 'Then let me buy you another.'

Evie contemplated this, swirling her drink around in it's glass. The she downed it in a gulp. 'Well,' she said, drawing out the word. 'It _is_ my birthday.'

* * *

John paced across the floor of 221b, agitated, phone in hand. He'd gotten back from the grave at around five in the afternoon, and had called Evie when he arrived home, needing some company, and when she hadn't picked up, he'd thought nothing of it. She'd told him she had an appointment, but hadn't specified what that appointment _was_ – still, that was fine. She was busy.

But now it was midnight and he hadn't heard a peep from her. He'd tried texting her, calling her, had asked Mrs Hudson if the landlady had known where Evie was going, but his efforts had borne no fruit. She'd said she wouldn't be back too late, and as the clock ticked closer to one, he couldn't help the feeling of worry growing in his stomach. He wiped his hand over his face as he tried to call her again. It rang a few times, then went straight to voicemail.

He grabbed his coat and his wallet and was at the door when he realised that such an attempt would be pointless. She could be anywhere in London – hell, she could be anywhere in _England_ for all he knew. He swore as he threw his coat back down. He couldn't shake the image of her lying, broken and bleeding in a ditch somewhere, or stabbed in an alley, or in some cheap, dingy flat, drugged, with some bastard doing _things _to her.

He grit his teeth and rang again.

* * *

**Hello,**

**I would just like to say a tremendous thank you to everyone who has followed, favourited and reviewed this story. It is greatly encouraging, especially all the lovely reviews that I take much pleasure in reading. I am sorry I haven' responded personally to any of them - I'm very flattered and genuinely touched by them, and I don't know how to convey that with my words, without sounding exceedingly twat-ish. But as soon as I learn how to blush profusely and act awkward via the internet, I will reply to every single one.**

**Thank you, very much.**

**-J**


	9. Chapter 9

She stumbled as she was lead from the pub. Marcus gripped her waist, and the wrist of the arm she had flung across his shoulders tightly to keep her upright.

'Hey,' she slurred. 'Is snowing.'

The snow crunched beneath their feet as Marcus lead her to the corner of the street. He peered up and down, looking for a cab.

'Where're we going?' Evie inquired, swaying drunkenly.

'Back to my place, babe,' he said.

She shook her head, trying to clear the tangle of her thoughts. This was a bad idea... right? His grip tightened.

'C'mon,' he urged. 'It's your birthday! Come have some fun.'

She shook her head again. 'Bad idea,' she muttered. She stepped away but he pulled her closer again.

His voice was hot on her ear. 'You'll have a good time,' he promised, then proceeded to describe exactly why she would have the aforementioned good time. His breath was hot against her cold skin. His hand was big and strong around her arm. He was close. He was too close.

'No,' she said, pulling away. 'Let me go.'

'You'll enjoy it, don't worry,' he assured her.

'No!'

'Hey, hey,' he brought her closer and lay his hand across her mouth. 'Don't yell. You'll give people the wrong idea.'

She jerked away from him, and stumbled over her own feet, falling on her behind in the snowy street.

'Get away,' she shook her head, trying to clear her vision, but the world was all wobbly and she couldn't focus her eyes. Her heart pounded and she couldn't catch her breath. 'From me. Get away from me.'

He crouched down, staring at her. 'I have spent all night buying you drinks,' he said, voice low. 'You _owe_ me. Now come on.'

He grabbed her upper arm, tried to hoist her to her feet, but she was too drunk and couldn't manage to stand nor flee. Instead, she scrabbled at his grip with her free hand.

'Let _go_!' She yelped, gasping for air, her heart pounding hard in her chest. She was scared, but in the back of her head, a place untouched by the ocean of drinks she had consumed, she was furious at herself for being in this position. Her mind worked sluggishly, trying to find options. Her phone – her phone – was in her handbag, back in the bar. John... tears sprang to her eyes. John. She'd forgotten about John. She said she'd be there. She said she'd help. She was an idiot, an idiot, a fucking idiot -

'Babe? Is that you?'

A voice, smooth like velvet. Low. American. New York, to be precise. She looked up and, through the alcohol and tears, could see a tall man in a jacket with a fur-lined hood and skinny jeans tucked into big boots. He had caramel hair and an easy smile.

He walked over and helped her to her feet. She clung to him for support.

'Who're you?' Marcus asked suspiciously.

'I'm Cooper,' the man introduced, showing no sign of strain at holding up the intoxicated young woman. 'Evie's boyfriend.'

Marcus gaped. '_Boyfriend_? But she said she didn't have one!'

The man, Cooper, chuckled. 'Well, we had a bit of a spat, you see. I had to work on her birthday and she wasn't pleased.' He looked down at her fondly. 'I can see she got a bit carried away. I hope she didn't give you much trouble.'

'Well I – she - ' Marucs balked. 'No,' he answered.

'That's good. I'll take it from here. Thanks, man.'

They watched as Marcus sulked down the street, waved down a cab and sped off. When he was out of site, Cooper turned to Evie.

'Wait here,' he ordered, before disappearing back into the pub. His voice had changed. It wasn't American anymore. She should've been suspicious, but instead she was just immensely grateful. Evie slid back onto the ground, unable to hold herself up, lay on the snow, pressed the heel of her palms into her eyes.

'Fuck,' she muttered weakly.

* * *

Sherlock stormed impatiently through the pub, picked up Evie's handbag and coat. He was fuming. What a _complete_ moron. An insipid, vapid, idiotic woman who couldn't make a rash decision to save her life. And now, here he was, cleaning up after her_,_ out in the cold, all because John had been unable to just go to bed and leave it be. He'd been pacing across the flat, unable to sleep, as Sherlock looked on through the window. Eventually, he'd caved in and gone to find the bloody idiot. It wasn't hard to deduce, he figured it out in moments, but to arrive at the pub closest to the cemetery where her father and brother were buried in _Birmingham _took him two hours.

When he returned outside, she was lying on the snow with her hands over her face. He stood beside her.

'Get up,' he instructed. She didn't move. He nudged (kicked) her with his foot.

'Get up,' he repeated.

She shook her head, apparently having not heard him. 'I'm an idiot,' she muttered.

'At least you are aware of your own incompetence,' Sherlock spat. 'Now get up.'

She struggled to her feet, and when she slipped on the snow and almost fell again, Sherlock was forced to reach out and catch her. Her skin was icy, she was shivering. Her hair was dishevelled, her eyes bloodshot, her dress had ridden up and was barely covering her thighs. She was a complete and utter mess, in every sense of the word.

He handed her her coat and she struggled to put it on. While she did, he waved down another cab and when he turned around to tell her to get in, she had backed away.

'Where are you taking me?' She asked shakily.

'I'm not going to touch you,' Sherlock replied impatiently. 'Now get into the cab.'

She continued to back away, eyes wide, and almost tripped again. He grabbed her arm to steady her and she flinched.

'You've really no choice,' Sherlock told her, bored. 'You're far from home, utterly intoxicated, have no phone and no money.'

She searched her pockets for her wallet or phone, but Sherlock held up her bag.

'Trust me when I say I have absolutely no intentions of assaulting you in any way and just _get in the cab.'_

She didn't budge. He sighed in contempt and pulled out his wallet.

'Here is my ID,' he said, handing her a fake which she took with shaking hands. 'If that offers any reassurance at all, you can hold onto it.'

Reluctantly, she entered the vehicle. Sherlock followed and gave instructions to head to the nearest station, because no cab would drive from Birmingham to London, but looking at the young woman, falling asleep in the seat beside him, he realised that she would never make it to the door unassisted, let alone the train ride. So he changed his order, telling the cabbie to head to the nearest hotel.

It was a cheap, two star place, and he booked a room, just for the night, under a false name. He had to practically drag the drunken girl to the room, and when he sat her down on the single bed, she held her coat tightly closed. He sighed impatiently, sitting down on the opposite side of the room.

He waved a hand at the bed. 'Go to sleep,' he said. 'It will be less painful for the both of us that way.'

She stared at him for a good long while, then toed off her shoes. She pulled back the covers and crawled beneath them. He took out his phone and pressed at the buttons, ignoring her.

'Thanks,' she said in a small voice. He didn't reply.

'I'm sorry,' she tried again. 'I'm not usually like this.' He hummed in reply, not paying attention. 'It's just...' She shrank into her blankets. 'It's my birthday.'

His fingers stilled. He turned his phone over in his hands. 'Mine, too,' he said softly, though he had no idea what possessed him to do such a thing.

She gave a quiet chuckle. 'That makes three of us.'

'Who's the third?'

'A friend of a friend,' she yawned.

'Ah.' He studied her in the dark. 'What is he like?'

'I dunno,' she replied sleepily. 'Never met him.'

Sherlock didn't respond.

'He was brilliant,' she murmured.

His voice was soft, purring in her ears. 'And how do you know that?'

'Because... John said so.'

Sherlock didn't know how to reply.

'Do you play violin?' Evie inquired, and it was such a non-sequitor that Sherlock paused for a moment before replying.

'Yes.'

'That makes three of us, too,' she trailed off. Her breathing evened and deepened. Sherlock sat in the dark, looking at the figure curled up in bed. His eyes did not perceive her as they normally did. He saw facts; he saw evidence. He scrutinised and he deduced and he solved. But now he was just watching the gentle rising and falling of her chest, the amber hair spilling across the pillow, how eerily pale her skin looked in the dim light of the moon, intruding through the window. His eyes glazed over her freckles and her faded red lips and her chipped nail polish. Those diamonds, glinting in her ears. The slight curl of her fingers. Nothing useful, nothing substantial. Just little bits of her, tiny pieces of the person she was.

He picked up her bag and found her phone. A dozen missed calls from John, and a score of texts. Careful not to open any new messages, he scrolled through her inbox.

_Have fun at your appointment. - JW_

_Will you be back late? - JW_

_Okay, I will, thanks. - JW_

_I'm going to the grave. - JW_

_Sherlock's birthday is tomorrow. - JW_

Her entire inbox was filled with John. Sherlock read every message carefully as he clicked through them, picturing John sending them, texting slowly like he always did, because he was so useless with technology. Evie's inbox was like a time capsule, a documentation of John's grieving process. He reached the beginning of the chain of texts.

_Please leave me alone. - JW_

_I just want to mourn in peace. - JW_

_I don't need anything. - JW_

Sherlock locked her phone, wiped it with his coat and placed it back into her bag. He leant back into his chair and returned to watching Evie sleep. He reviewed everything he knew about her, everything he had discovered about her past, and deduced about her since she had moved into 221. He didn't like her. He didn't trust her. She'd taken his best friend _and his violin._

But he couldn't deny she was good for John.


	10. Chapter 10

'Where have you _been_?'

Evie winced at the loudness. The aspirin hadn't kicked in yet so she'd been forced to make her way home with a killer headache. Luckily, she'd had her sunglasses in her bag to hide from what she felt was an inappropriately bright morning. And luckily, nobody had stolen anything.

Waking up alone in an unfamiliar hotel room with hardly any memory of the night before was more than a little scary. She'd scrambled to check on her belongings and found them all present and accounted for. Apart from her hangover, she didn't feel any sort of discomfort. She tidied herself up, then raced (or, walked as quickly as she could manage) down to reception.

'The room was booked under a mister Phillip Wilkins,' the receptionist had informed her. Evie racked her brain for any knowledge on this name or this person, but found nothing, and the receptionist told her that everything had been paid for, including breakfast, so if she'd like to make her way toward the dining hall...

'Out,' Evie croaked.

John stared at her incredulously. 'Out _where_?' He demanded. 'I've been up all night, worried sick. You said you wouldn't be out late!'

'Yeah I know,' Evie answered with barely contained impatience. Her head thumped.

'You said you'd be back-'

'Well, I changed my mind, alright?'

'I haven't slept a wink-'

'Well I'm _sorry_ that I wanted to have a night out!' She yelled at him, and though she knew she was misunderstanding, she didn't care because her head was pounding and last night had scared her and she wanted to lock herself in her flat and be sad in peace. There. No tip-toeing or denying or poetics, she was _just fucking sad._ '_Sorry_ I didn't ask your permission to go to the bar, _sorry_ I wasn't here to make you fucking cocoa and hold your hand! _I have a life too, John!_'

He flinched, as if she'd struck him – which it felt like she had. Her misplaced anger died like a flame in a vacuum. She sagged against the wall.

'I'm sorry, John. It's just- I'm- I didn't mean it,' she finished lamely.

'You don't have to do anything you don't want to,' he muttered. 'I didn't ask you to-'

'I know you didn't ask. I wanted to-'

'I don't want you to feel obliged or-'

'I don't feel obliged-'

'If it's pity-'

'John, no,' she sighed tiredly, rubbing her eyes. 'I _like_ being your friend. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to blow up like that, it's just-'

'It's okay. You don't owe me an explanation-'

'Yeah, I do. I promised I would be here and I bailed, and then I yelled at you for no reason. I just stopped by a bar on my way back and I got carried away.' Those last words sounded familiar, but she couldn't place them. 'It was a bad decision, and I was really, really stupid. I'm really sorry, John.' She sighed again, messing her hair with her fingers in frustration. 'I spend all this time going around and pretending that I understand and that I _know_ it'll get better, and I keep telling you, John, that it's going to be okay and that I know what it's like, but I _don't_. I'm not better, and I don't know what I'm doing and I've just been a hypocrite this whole time.'

John took a step closer. 'Evie?' He said. 'What're you-'

'Nothing.' She let her arms fall to her sides. 'It's nothing. I'm just really tired. And, again, I'm sorry for being such a twat.'

John cracked a smile. 'That's alright.'

They stood in awkward silence.

'I think I should go to bed,' Evie said finally.

'Oh, uh, yeah. You do that. I'll see you... ah...'

'Dinner?' She suggested.

'Dinner,' he agreed.

'I'll see you then, John Watson.'

When the door clicked shut behind her, John returned to his apartment, kicked off his shoes and lay on his bed. He was tired, so tired that it felt like he couldn't sleep. He thought about Evie, this woman who'd appeared out of nowhere and brought him soup without prompt. He thought about all the times she'd given him company when he'd craved it, and space when he'd asked, how she'd shopped for his groceries and done his laundry and distracted him and he realised he didn't really know much about her at all. He'd begun to love the idea of her and not the person; he'd been enamoured with the thought of a pretty young woman who was clever and kind and wanted to take care of him. He'd painted her into this fictional figure who existed purely to fill his needs, written her into a 2D character who didn't have her own problems or worries or pains. He'd forgotten that she existed independently of him. He'd forgotten she was a person.

So, yeah, she had been wrong; but she was human and so, by default, far from perfect.

* * *

When Evie arrived home from work at ten on a Tuesday night in March, all she wanted to do was sleep. Instead, she had a shower, put on her pyjamas, and walked into 221b without knocking. John was sitting in his armchair with a glass of wine in hand, doing nothing in particular but thinking and drinking.

'Hey, Evie,' he greeted with a raise of his glass. 'How was work?'

'Horrible,' she answered, flopping down on the lounge. She'd gotten a job waitressing at a cafe down the street a month back. 'It was packed to the rafters, and Madge was been a complete cow for no reason at all, as usual.' Her expression softened. 'How about you? How was your day?'

He took a sip of wine. 'Six months, today,' he told her.

She folded her arms on the arm of the chair and rested her chin. 'Yeah.'

'Want a glass?'

She eyed the bottle of wine, still mostly full, with suspicion. 'I dunno,' she said warily, 'didn't we already establish that drowning our sorrows didn't work?'

John chuckled. 'I'm not drowning anything,' he assured her. 'I'm just... thinking, I guess.'

'No thanks. I think I drink too much wine.' She smiled at him. 'Wouldn't mind some tea, though.'

He chuckled and stood, putting on the kettle and fetching her a mug.

'Half a year already,' John sighed from the kitchen.

'Doesn't seem it, does it?'

'No.' He shook his head. 'It doesn't. It seems like less. And like more.' He stopped. 'That doesn't make sense, does it?'

'No, it does.' John poured the water, added milk and sugar, and offered it to Evie. She accepted it and he sat back down, picking up his wine glass again.

'I was thinking,' John let his head fall back, 'of getting a job. Just at a practice, somewhere local. Low key. Ordinary. Just to... get out of the house. And start earning some money.'

'That sounds like a good idea,' she approved. 'Got to move on eventually, right?'

'Right,' he agreed. 'Right?'

'Right.'

He poured himself another glass. 'And I, uh, I met someone.'

'Oh,' Evie blinked. John glanced at her. 'Who is she?'

'Her name's Mary. We were in line together at the supermarket and started talking. She gave me her number.'

'Well, that's good, isn't it?'

'Think so, yeah.'

'As long as she makes you happy.'

An uncomfortable silence fell.

'I still miss him,' John said softly.

'You'll never stop.'

'Does it get easier?'

'No.' Her eyes crinkled around the edges as she smiled. 'But it doesn't get harder.'

* * *

**In which John learns to imagine people complexly, and Evie learns that she needs John as much as he needs her.**


	11. Chapter 11

One week into July, Evie got off work early to get back to Baker Street by five. She bumped into John at the front door.

'Hello, birthday boy,' she grinned.

'Hi, Evie,' he answered turning his key in the lock.

'So, you've picked a place to eat?' She asked, following him through the front door. They reached the stairs and halted.

'Yeah, a little restaurant down in Soho. Nice place, good food. What time are Greg and Molly getting here?'

'At six, so we've got an hour. Time enough to pretty yourself up. Is Mary coming?'

He gave a small smile. 'Yeah, I told her where we're going and to meet us there at quarter to seven. She lives in the other direction, so meeting here seemed ridiculous.'

Evie clasped her hands to her heart and fake swooned. 'To think!' She gasped dramatically. 'I am meeting the infamous Mary Morstan at last!'

He swatted her on the arm. 'Shut up,' he laughed.

'Oh, and Mrs Hudson sent you a birthday post card,' Evie remembered. 'Hang on, I put it in my flat somewhere...'

She fished her keys out of her bag and opened her door. She'd left the postcard on the end table by her door.

'Where is she now?' John asked, accepting it and turning it over in his hands.

'India, I think.'

He read the card, a smile tugging at his lips. 'She sounds happy.'

'Yeah, she does.' She shoved him out of her flat. 'Now, get gone! I need to beautify myself.'

They parted ways. Once inside, she stripped off her clothes and washed away the cafe smell (coffee, steam and sweat) in the shower. She'd just put on her dress when the buzz of the doorbell rang through her flat. She listened to see if John would answer, but obviously he hadn't heard, so she hurried into the hall, barefoot, hair dripping, and answered the door.

She was not expecting to see Mycroft Holmes. Not just standing at the door of her residency, but for the remainder of her life as a whole. She gaped, uncomprehending. Mycroft, on the other hand, seemed entirely unfazed to find himself on the doorstep of an old acquaintance, and merely smiled.

'Evie,' he greeted warmly, leaning down to kiss her cheek. 'What a pleasure to see you. It's been quite a long time.'

'Uh,' she began, then cleared her throat. 'Yes, it has. Mycroft, what are you doing here?'

Footsteps descending the stairs, and John arrived at the landing. 'Evie, who is it-'

John stopped in his tracks and, just like Evie, seemed completely gobsmacked to find Mister Holmes the elder beneath their stoop.

'Mycroft,' John said after he had recovered from the shock. 'What are you doing here?'

'I'm here to wish you a happy birthday, John,' he answered serenely. 'And to check up on you, of course.'

The army doctor's expression hardened. 'Well, you've said it, and you checked,' he all but snarled. 'You can go now.'

Mycroft's expression touched on sorrow, but his composure was quickly recovered. 'Still holding a grudge, I see.'

'Wait,' Evie interrupted, 'you two know each other?'

'This is Sherlock's bro- wait, _you_ two know each other?'

'Mycroft was a mate of my brothers,' Evie explained, and Mycroft smiled and gave a nod in agreement. 'They went to school together. I met him at the odd function or two.'

'Right,' John said. 'Well, Mycroft was Sherlock's brother.'

'Oh,' Evie breathed. 'I'm sorry for your loss, Mycroft.'

'Thank you for your condolences, Genevieve,' he said. 'Now, may I have a word?'

'Um, sure,' Evie agreed. Mycroft opened the front door for her.

'John, it's been a pleasure, as always,' he said, before shutting the door on the army doctor's scowl.

'Shall we talk over coffee?' Mycroft suggested, gesturing to Speedy's cafe next door.

'I'd love to, Mycroft,' Evie said, 'really. But we're going out for a birthday dinner-'

'Understood. Tomorrow, perhaps?'

'I have to work all day.'

He pulled out his phone and started typing. 'Call in sick.'

Evie narrowed her eyes. 'I'm not going to rearrange my life because you come waltzing along, Holmes.'

'Very well, then,' he replied, and she thought he had agreed, when he put away his phone and said, 'I'll have a car sent at six. We'll have breakfast.'

'What? You can't just-'

'I look forward to seeing you,' he smiled faux-warmly, but his countenance left no room for argument. A car pulled up by the curb, the driver opened the door, and Mycroft stepped inside without looking back.

Evie returned to her flat, muttering about inconsiderate twats as she brushed her hair.

* * *

**A short chapter today, but the next update will be longer than usual to compensate.**

**As always, thank you for reading.**

**-J**


	12. Chapter 12

When she left her house on the way to work the next morning, a sleek black car was parked outside her door. Upon laying eyes on her, the driver left the car and held the back door open.

'Oh, no I am not,' she said hotly. 'You can tell Mycroft to-'

'I'm afraid I must insist, Miss Blackwood,' the driver informed her.

'Well, I'm afraid I must decline.' She spun on her heel and started to walk down the street. Before she could take a step, she was picked up by the arms and slid into the backseat of the car. The door was closed and locked behind her.

'Hey!' She yelled, as the driver took his place in the front. He turned the key in the ignition and the vehicle hummed to life. 'This is abduction!'

The driver didn't reply. She huffed and slumped back in her seat, digging her phone out of her bag. She called her boss, made up some excuse about a dying grandmother, and by the time she'd finished they'd stopped outside an old, yet well kept building. The door was opened and she scowled at the driver as she was lead through tastefully decorated corridors into a brightly lit room. Paintings adorned the walls, and curtains were thrown open to let in the early light. Sitting in the corner, an old grandfather clock stood, and in the middle, Mycroft Holmes sat opposite an empty chair at a white-clothed table.

'Ah,' he said, returning his tea cup to it's saucer when she entered the room. 'Genevieve. Good morning.'

'_Mister Holmes_,' she scowled, stalking over to the table. 'You just couldn't take no for an answer?'

'Now, now,' Mycroft soothed, unfazed. 'Do sit. It's far too early for such unjust anger.'

'_Unjust?_' She fumed.

'Would you like some tea?'

She stared at him, then, with a grand sigh of resignation, took her seat.

'Tea would be lovely,' she answered. An impeccably dressed waiter brought her a cup, she added sugar to her liking, then took a long sip.

'So,' she said, putting down her beverage. 'What have you summoned me for, Mycroft?'

'Let us not get to that just yet,' he answered. 'We have years worth of catching up to do, and a whole meal to enjoy.'

Evie rolled her eyes.

'Now, Genevieve-'

'Evie, please.'

He smiled a very Mycroft smile – an expression purely for the benefit of others, containing no genuine emotion. 'Evie, then.'

She repressed another sigh. 'Well then, Mycroft,' she started, 'I see you've certainly moved up in the world since we last saw. No longer a lowly local politician, are you?'

'Lady Luck has been kind to me, I suppose. I make a modest living.'

She pointedly swept her eye across the room. 'Modest. Of course.'

Breakfast was brought out, presented in the way only professionals could manage; a spotless white plate that was much larger than the portion it contained. She straightened her napkin and placed it on her lap, picked up her cutlery.

'And you, Genevieve. You've certainly... changed since we last saw each other, and dramatically so. You've moved to London, for a start.'

'Well,' she helped herself to some toast, 'the family business turned out to be, I guess, not my kind of business.'

'Of course. A shame, though. You were extremely gifted. The brightest of them all.'

'Being the brightest burns a lot of fuel, I've found. Too much.'

He smirked. 'An interesting philosophy.'

They ate in silence.

'And your family?' Mycroft inquired, innocently enough.

She casually cut up her toast. 'Dead. Or estranged.'

'I see. Apologies.'

She finished her food without speaking, trying to figure out what Mycroft was up to. He wouldn't go to such lengths to merely "catch up" with her, or ask about her family (she was pretty sure he knew, anyway, and had only been asking to make small talk, or more likely, to make her uncomfortable). When she was done, she lay her cutlery on the empty plate. She was poured another cup of tea and watched the man opposite carefully over the rim of her cup. He only smiled that patent Mycroft-smile at her.

'Mycroft,' she spoke at last, 'I'm tired of games. I've left behind all this cloak-and-dagger nonsense, and I don't miss it in the slightest. Tell me, now, the reason you've brought me here. We both know that it isn't because you've missed me.'

'Very well then,' he conceded. He dabbed his mouth with his napkin. 'What do you know about the death of Sherlock Holmes?'

It took her a moment to overcome her surprise and reply.

'Not much, really,' she admitted. 'John hasn't told me much – I think it's hard for him to talk about. I really only know what I read in the papers.'

The corners of Mycroft's mouth curled bitterly. 'The _papers_,' he said with contempt, 'only reflect the asinine and ignorant thoughts of the masses. They aim to please the mundane and, as a result, are as reliable as the gossip of housewives.'

'John shares your sentiment.'

'As he should.' He lifted his own cup, but it never made contact with his lips. Instead, it hovered in-between as Mycroft stared out the window, over the silent sight of early-morning London.

'My brother,' he began, 'is an extraordinary man. Ever since he was young he has been able to see what the rest of us cannot. I have long thought that he has one of the most brilliant minds in the the last few centuries. Unfortunately, brilliance breeds contempt; genius inspires jealousy. My brother may be a flawed human being, but the disdain he was often victim to was a direct result of the inability of the banal to comprehend anything greater than themselves.'

Without taking a sip, he returned his cup to the table. 'This pettiness made it entirely far too easy for the ordinaries to be turned against him. Of course, the sheep could never do anything without the direction of the shepherd.' He leant forward and studied her closely. 'Tell me,' he continued, 'are you familiar with the name Jim Moriarty?'

'Yes. I read about his trial,' she answered. 'It was interesting, to stay the least.'

'Indeed it was. Sherlock once described Moriarty as a spider, and he could have not been more apt. Moriarty was a master of manipulation. He could pull strings and play the population of London as if they were nothing but puppets.' He leant back into his chair slowly. 'And, I am ashamed to admit, I was no exception.'

'You believed your own brother was a fraud?'

'No, I have always had faith in the intellect of Sherlock. I was played in a different way. I know you are aware, Evie, just as Sherlock and Moriarty are aware, that the real power in this world is not guns or missiles or uranium deposits. It is knowledge. Information. A dangerous tool, and the right knowledge in the right hands can be a weapon of mass destruction. I thought the information he would give me in exchange for information on Sherlock would be far more beneficial than damaging. And I was so, very wrong.'

Evie didn't reply.

'My regret is... insurmountable. I was instrumental in the downfall of my brother, and the knowledge of what I have done will burden me for the rest of my life. Using everything he now knew about Sherlock's life, Moriarty molded the public into a shape of his liking and the public, who in their ignorance refused to acknowledge that anybody could be as brilliant as my brother, put up no resistance. They shamed him, and this shame drove Sherlock to the edge of a roof. And then off it.'

'So that's why John hates you,' she murmured.

'And rightly so. I have cost him his best friend.'

Evie sat there, thinking, but something didn't sit right to her. It took her a moment to pinpoint the source.

'Present tense.'

'Pardon?'

She looked up. 'You still refer to Sherlock in present tense. I hope this doesn't seem too harsh, but it's been ten months. People usually adapt by now.'

Mycroft's lips twitched. 'And so we arrive to the crux of the matter.' He raised a hand and a waiter approached, offering Evie a silver tray on which a brown folder lay. She took the folder and flipped it open. It was filled with reports, all official and highly classified, probably something she shouldn't be reading, but she skimmed over the pages regardless.

'What is this?' She asked, uncomprehending.

'Moriarty did not work alone. He was the head of a complex syndicate. Currently, he is missing, and whether or not he is alive is unclear. Certainly, no body has been found. However, the underworld of organised crime that he built is still active.'

She flipped to a new page. A report from Detective Inspector Lestrade, detailing how an anonymous tip lead the police to the location of a known operative of Moriarty's organisation in Hackney. Inside, the man had been found sedated, with no other human being in sight. On another, a report translated from Mandarin Chinese stated that a tip had caused the police to find the location of a known criminal. Dead, this time. These reports came from different police stations all across the world. Egypt, America, Australia, Russia...

'But lately,' Mycroft informed her, 'anonymous tips to authorities across the globe have lead the police to known members of Moriarty's web. All of these members have been found either sedated, or dead. The tipper remains unknown, but I do know this; whoever has been picking off the remainders of Moriarty's men must be,' his expression was both impressed and fond. 'Brilliant.'

Slowly, she closed the folder. 'And you think that _Sherlock_ is the one doing this?'

'Nobody truly knows what happened near the "end" of Sherlock's life. The only two people who know for certain the events that transpired are Sherlock and Moriarty himself.'

'How sure are you that this is Sherlock, and not some other vigilante?'

He hesitated. 'I admit, we have no substantial proof. But it seems logical. He is a remarkable man.'

She paused. The grandfather clock in the corner ticked away. Birdsong drifted in through the window. The sun grew stronger, and cars could be heard in the distance. London was waking up. The clock struck seven and the _dong dong dong_ rang through the room.

'Why are you telling me this?'

'Genevieve, you have been a tremendous comfort to John his time of need. I doubt he would be alive today at all, had you not moved into 221c. You are, now, his dearest friend. So I leave this information with you, to tell him... or not.'

She gripped the folder in her hands.

'How sure are you that Sherlock is alive? Give me a figure.'

'Well,' Mycroft contemplated, 'if I had to quantify it in such a way... I would say there is a three out of ten chance that this mysterious do-gooder is Sherlock.'

She let out a low whistle. 'Thirty percent,' she breathed. 'That's certainly optimistic, considering you've no proof.'

'I am not optimistic, Genevieve; I just have faith in my little brother's abilities.'

She stood and picked up her bag, shoving the folder inside.

'What will you do? If I may ask.'

She pulled her handbag onto her shoulder. She took her time in replying.

'I'm not going to tell him,' she said finally. 'I can't.'

'Who else could have located and captured all these criminals?'

She didn't have an answer.

'Doesn't John deserve to know?'

'And if you're wrong, Mycroft?' Her face was sombre. 'What if you're faith is misplaced? What then? What if I give John hope, only to have to take it back? He's getting better. He smiles more and more each day. He's got a girlfriend and a job and-'

'You?'

'Yeah.' She gave him a tired smile. 'He's got me. I'll see you around, Mycroft.'

She left.


	13. Chapter 13

'Oh, Evie. What're you doing home so early?'

'They double booked us,' she lied, without pausing to think. 'Cass and I both turned up, and Cass offered to do the shift.' She grinned. 'So I got the day off.'

'Well, good for you,' he smiled, 'but the rest of us have to go to work. What'd you want to do for dinner tonight?'

'I'll make something nice, since I've got all day.'

He rubbed his hands together. 'Great! Oh,' he said before he left, 'Mary's sleeping upstairs, so don't make too much noise.'

She snorted. 'That's what I wanted to say about last night.'

He turned slightly pink, and she laughed. When he had gone, she sat down in her flat, took the file out of her bag and re-read the reports. Could it be Sherlock? She didn't know. She had no way of knowing. She'd never met the man, hadn't witnessed his "brilliance" first hand; she couldn't have faith in him, like Mycroft did, like John does. But she did know this - that John certainly thought his best friend to be dead. That he had grieved, and he had broken, and now he was pulling himself together and trying to move on. She didn't know Sherlock, but she did know that he would have to be unbelievably cruel to do that to John.

She ripped the folder into pieces and tossed them into the bin. She was doing the right thing. She was. If she told John, then all he'd want to do is find Sherlock. He'd throw away everything he had worked so hard for over the past ten months. Mary. His job at the practice. His happiness. He would become obsessed, he'd go backwards, and worst of all, he would have hope. Hope that would build him up and sustain him and, eventually, cause him to fall.

And then all the company and soup and alcohol in the world wouldn't be able to put John Watson together again.

* * *

As November began, Winter was truly on it's way. Throughout Autumn, the days had grown both colder and shorter, the sun growing more scarce as it prepared for it's long hibernation. Ads for Christmas sales were starting to roll, and the more (ridiculously) festive portion of the London population were already preparing for Christmas.

Evie had already started to put up her ornaments.

John clicked on the heater as soon as he arrived home, and started to cook dinner. He wasn't exactly a culinary genius, but, like seemingly every man, he knew how to grill. He'd bought some sausages and steak from the butchers, and cooking that up wouldn't be a problem, so he thought he'd take a crack at making a salad.

The end result wasn't particularly splendid, but he consoled himself with the fact that it was still a salad. Sure, the cucumber was cut up in uneven chunks, and the avocado perhaps wasn't ripe enough, and maybe he'd been a bit too generous with the vinegar sauce, but he was sure it was at least passable. Checking the clock, he realised that his attempt at a salad had taken a bit more time than he had anticipated, and so hurried with starting up the stove.

He'd just clicked off the gas and was pouring the fat onto some paper over the bin when Evie walked in. She always looked thoroughly harassed when she returned from work, with dishevelled hair, flushed cheeks and food stains on her shirt. The cafe where she worked was small, cosy, and much too popular for it's current staff and real estate to handle with efficiency. Most of the people working there, apart from the owners, were college students who were trying to pay their way through school by busting tables.

'Oh, this looks,' she prodded the salad with a fork, '...nice.'

'Well, er, salad's not really my area of expertise,' John explained, putting some snags on a plate for her.

'I'm sure it's lumpy and lopsided appearance hides a reserve of deliciousness,' she assured him, accepting the plate and sitting down at the table. He pulled up another seat and sat opposite.

'Right,' he agreed. 'It's what's on the inside that counts.'

What was on the inside was too much vinegar for the salad to be consumed in any large quantities, so the meal was mainly sausage sandwiches and some mashed potatoes. They chattered on about their respective days, John talking about some old woman who was convinced she had contracted lung cancer from her good for nothing son and his good for nothing ways, Evie bemoaning rude customers and a coupe of kids who had spilled not one, but _two_ milkshakes on the floor in rush hour. When she asked about Mary, he set down his knife and fork, and cleared his throat.

'Well, that's actually what I've been meaning to talk to you about.'

The forkful of sausage and mash that was on it's way to her mouth halted halfway through it's journey. 'You didn't get her pregnant, did you?' She asked.

'What? No! No, no, she's not... pregnant.'

Evie breathed a sigh of relief, and her food resumed it's transition from the plate to her mouth. 'Well, what's up?'

'I've been thinking about moving out.'

Evie swallowed her mouthful, then put down her cutlery and sat up straighter.

'Oh,' she said. 'And moving in with Mary?'

'Nothing's for certain,' he told her hurriedly. 'We just... talked about it, that's all. As an option.'

'How long has it been now?'

'Seven months.'

'Isn't that a bit soon?'

'Is it?'

'Well, I don't know. I've never been in a proper relationship.'

'Never?'

'Not moving-in proper.' She pushed a leaf of lettuce with her fork. 'So... are you going to?'

'I don't know,' he admitted. 'I wanted to hear what you think.'

She looked at him, mulling the question over in her mind. 'I think,' she said slowly, 'that you should do what makes you happy.'

He looked down at his own plate. 'Even if it means leaving?'

'Well... she could move in here.'

John shook his head. 'I don't think I could live in 221b with anybody but Sherlock. And it's been almost a year. He's not coming back.'

She chased the lettuce leaf across her plate, not looking up. 'Yeah,' was all she said.

'So...you're alright with it? I mean, it's not happening straight away. I'm not going to start packing my bags tonight. It's just a possibility, that it might happen soon.'

'How soon is soon?'

'It's...' he trailed off. 'I don't know,' he said. 'A couple of months?'

'Okay. I can adapt.' She smiled, that eye-crinkling smile. 'As long as you're happy, John.'

'I am. And I will be. I have Mary. And we'll still be friends, won't we?'

'Of course we will.'

* * *

**In which people start moving on.**


	14. Chapter 14

Harrison Tilney lived in a squalid apartment in a squalid estate in La Courneuve, Fance. Most of the windows were broken and subsequently covered with cardboard, taped to the frames. There was a wide manner of stains on the carpet, and water damage on the walls. The mattress reeked of body odour and alcohol, and Sherlock curled his lip in distaste as he stood in the shadows of the empty flat.

The _thump thump thump_ of footsteps signalled the approach of Tilney. Sherlock pressed himself against the walls and listened the the gentle _click click_ of the key sliding home, and the door opening. Sherlock, hiding in the bedroom, heard Tilney drop his bag on the ground and kick off his shoes. He clattered around in the tiny kitchen, opening the fridge and shutting it without removing anything (there was nothing to remove). He grumbled in French as he approached his bedroom, and Sherlock removed the cap of the syringe in his hand.

Tilney was a big man, with a thick neck, meaty fists and an aggravated skin condition. He'd taken only one step into the flat when Shelock pounced as nimble as a cat, onto his back and jabbed the needle into his neck, pressing down on the plunger.

Tilney roared, and launched himself backward, slamming Sherlock into the wall and knocking the breath out of him. He spun around and his hands found the dead man's throat, squeezing tight. Sherlock pulled at the big slabs of meat suffocating him, kicking out with his feet and finding the soft part of Tilney's stomach. The man grunted, but did not slacken his grip. Sherlock stopped fighting and focused all his attention on not passing out.

Agonisingly slowly, Tilney's grip loosened, until Sherlock could pull himself free. He gulped down air as Tilney stumbled around the room knocking furniture over in his attempt to stay upright. When Sherlock had sufficiently recovered, the mountain of a man was lying on the ground, unconscious.

Cursing his own stupidity for not having uncovered the huge man's poor circulatory problems, Sherlock removed some rope from one of his pockets and bound Tilney's hands behind his back.

In perfect French, he informed the authorities of Tilney's location, and escaped from the scene. Walking down the dirty streets of La Courneuve, he went through the list in his mind, checking them off as he went. Froaly, captured. Minkin, captured. Georgewell, Michaelson, Adair... all of them, apprehended, locked away for the rest of their lives. His stint as a dead man was coming to an end. For fifteen months, his life had been consumed with tracking, capturing, tracking, capturing, an endless cycle, only stopping to sleep in cheap hotels when he had to and eat cheap, fast food when necessary. He'd been lost in the hunt, had forgotten about everything – hadn't even realised it was Christmas until he'd seen the decorations lining the street – and now he was here, so close to his goal. He'd been to Egypt, America, Australia, Russia, China, and France, and now finally, finally, he could go back to 221b Baker Street. To John. To home. It was all so close.

Only one person left.

He couldn't help but smile as he listened to the ringing through the speaker of his phone. As always, Mycroft picked up after four and a half rings.

'Mycroft,' Sherlock said, without greeting, 'I need a ticket from France to London, as soon as possible.'

There was a pause. He heard his brother inhale.

'Sherlock,' Mycroft replied, as composed as ever. 'Not dead, I see.'

'The _tickets, _Mycroft.'

Silence. And then;

'Of course, Sherlock. Aisle or window?'

* * *

People left behind any thoughts of merriment and festivity as January began to shift into gear. Christmas gifts began to be forgotten, New Years resolutions quickly broken. Evie walked home from work, her hurried pace both an attempt to fight off the cold and get back to her heater earlier. She unlocked the front door as usual, wondering if John was yet home from Mary's, opened the door to her flat, hung her heavy coat and scarf from the coat tree and almost screamed at the man sitting on her lounge.

'You're not going to faint, are you?' The man asked, contempt obvious in his voice. He both looked and sounded familiar, but she couldn't pinpoint why. His dark hair... his smooth voice... his sudden intrusion in her life...

'Who are you?' She demanded, drawing herself up and trying to look intimidating. He noted this and scoffed.

'Sherlock Holmes,' he said.

She stared, gobsmacked. Her eyes travelled up and down his body. He looked very relaxed, reclining on her lounge, and certainly looked like any pictures of the infamous consulting detective she had seen – hair perhaps a little longer, definitely much skinnier. But then logic caught up, and her eyes narrowed.

'Get out,' she seethed through gritted teeth.

That certainly wasn't the response he was expecting, but he didn't move. 'No,' he said.

She stormed up to him. 'Get. Out.'

'No,' he repeated with a shrug.

Her nostrils flared in anger, and she grabbed his arm, hauling him up.

'_Get out of my flat right now_,' she demanded, words dripping venom. 'Get out, and never come back, or I swear to God you will be spending the rest of your life in a gaol, eating gruel and forging number plates.'

He looked down at her, bored. 'Well, aren't you intimidating,' he drawled, clearly unimpressed.

She stared at him, almost speechless with rage. Her hand, which was still holding the man's arm, tightened, nails digging into his skin. He didn't flinch.

'John has been through _enough,_' she almost yelled. '_He has been through enough!_ He doesn't need some sicko waltzing into his life, parading as his dead best friend, just because you get some kind of sick pleasure out of other people's misery! You're a disgusting, pathetic excuse for a human being, and _I WANT YOU OUT OF MY FLA-!'_

His gloved hand closed around her mouth, and she swung her fist, aiming for his jaw, but he batted her hand away like it was nothing more than a fly. She went to knee him in the groin but he stepped away effortlessly.

'If you try to yell again, I'll be forced to incapacitate you,' he said, speaking low and quick, 'and wouldn't _that_ be a shame.'

She screamed into his gloved hand.

'Right now there is a sniper on the top of the building opposite, ready to gun me down in a quick and efficient manner as soon as I step foot in Baker Street. If he finds out I am here, there will be a professional killer knocking at your door, ready to shoot whomsoever he desires. Is that what you want?'

She stilled. He removed his hand from her face.

'My brother told you there was a thirty percent chance of me being alive, did he not? Well, he was wrong. But there is a significant chance of not only me, but you and John, ceasing to be alive if you do not co-operate. Do you understand?'

She nodded, jaw clenched.

He smiled an ingenuine and unconvincing smile.

'Now,' he said, 'be a good girl and ring John.'

* * *

John consciously paced his steps as he approached the front door of his home. Evie's phone call had been more than a little distressing.

'_Come home, now,_' she had instructed him. Her voice had been tight, strain obvious. '_But don't hurry. Act normal when you approach the door._' And here, the strain became more obvious. '_And please, John... just, be prepared._'

He opened the door casually, as ordered, but as soon as it clicked shut behind him, he pressed himself against the wall and drew his handgun from his jacket pocket. Evie's flat was silent. He crept closer and closer and almost shot Evie when she opened her door.

'John!' She said, looking distraught. 'You're- is that a gun?'

He lowered the weapon. 'Well, yeah,' he waved the weapon. 'You said _be prepared_. This is me, being prepared.'

She gnawed anxiously on her lower lip. 'That's not what I meant.' She was obviously stressed as she reached forward and lay a hand on his shoulder. 'Just-'

'For God's sake, you're not going to start crying now, are you?'

John went still. That voice... Before she could say anything else, he'd pushed past her and into her flat, then froze only a step past the door.

'Hello, John,' Sherlock Holmes said.

**End.**

* * *

**Hello.**

**Firstly, I want to thank you for reading. Secondly, don't fret - the sequel is coming. It is called ****_Picking Up Again_****, and the first chapter will be posted on my page within the next 24 hours.**

**Again, thank you very, very much for taking interest in my indulgences.**

**-J**


End file.
